Loose Canon
by The Timmynator
Summary: The second installment in my Canon Comics series, this details the events in the title's namesake comic. Fully detailed in Word-O-Vision, with SurroundPages system fully integrated.
1. Brotherly Love

_In which sauce is appreciated._

New Mexico. 1850.

Four men and a woman surrounded the antique mahogany table. Like many of the other artefacts in the building, it was of great value. In fact, the value of the various items in the house was precisely what was being discussed.

The building belonged to the late Zepheniah Mann. The obligatory hordes of hopefuls had left the grounds ten minutes ago, when they heard that only four people were included in the will.

The bespectacled attorney adjusted his glasses, and then continued from where he left off.

"To my dearest maidservant Elizabeth, I, Zepheniah Mann, leave the rest and residue of my estate…"

Leaning against a wall, a tired-looking woman clad in a violet dress nodded sadly, lowering her cigarette holder from her mouth.

"…To my faithful aide and tracker, Barnabus Hale of the savage Australias, I divest complete control of Mann Co. and-" He was interrupted by a sudden breaking of glass as a majestically golden-furred cougar leapt through the window and made a spirited attempt at biting the face of the brawny and well-moustachioed man leaning back in his chair. Barnabus Hale responded by most emphatically throttling the creature, and they collapsed in a melee of pummelling limbs and lashing claws.

"Skip me for now, would you!" cried Barnabus. "I like this cougar's pepper sauce!"

But then again, what could you expect from an Australian?

The attorney gazed at the next paragraph of the will. He swallowed nervously.

"…To my layabout, brain-defective sons, Redmond and Blutarch, I leave the greatest curse of all. Partnership." The attorney paused, then continued. "What land I have purchased in this new world is to be split evenly between you both. You have wasted your lives bickering over nothing, and so I leave you dimwits something of consequence over which to feud."

The two dimwits in question briefly stopped arguing at the other end of the table to stare open-mouthed at the attorney. Redmond was wearing one of his many red three-piece suits, and a similarly-coloured bowler hat was perched on his head. His ears and pointed nose gave his face the appearance of a rat, and his thin moustache did nothing to improve his features. His brother, Blutarch, looked exactly the same as Redmond, albeit his clothing was entirely blue.

The brothers shared a glance. Each of them knew what they had to do.

* * *

1890\. New Mexico.

"Mister Conagher, I'm told you are a man of many ideas and few words. So I'll get to the point." The speaker took a deep breath. It crackled.

"Forty years ago, my…_brother_..." He seemed to be reluctant to acknowledge him as a relation. "Yes, my brother and I inherited a considerable parcel of land. Now, under ordinary circumstances, this would not be a problem. But it was far from ordinary. You see, Mister Conagher, this land package was to share." The speaker emitted a dry laugh that would sound more appropriate from a corpse. "Naturally, I am assembled a team of the world's deadliest mercenaries to take the land by force."

He gestured to a photograph on the wall. It showed nine men, dressed in outlandish garb. All of them were brandishing various weapons. Among them, Conagher saw giant of a man wielding sledgehammer, another brandishing a bloody bonesaw. Yet another shouldered a long rifle of some kind, and…

…was that a flamethrower?

The man sighed. "What I did _not_ expect was that my idiot brother would think to do the same. What started out quite an ingenious ten-minute land-grab soon became an intractable stalemate. The solution? If I could not take my brother's land by force, I would simply outlast him for it."

Blutarch Mann leaned forward at his desk. Now Conagher had a clear view at the machinery connected to the various veins on his body. Life-support systems of every kind pumped medical-grade drugs into his bloodstream.

"Look at my hands, Mister Conagher." The man in question obliged, noticing the intravenous drip leading into the veins on the top. And there was something else, too…

"I have never worked a day in my _life_ with them. They are the smooth hands of a baby," Blutarch continued. "I have mounted an epic campaign of leisure again the ravages of time."

He chuckled.

"I have been waiting for nature to do to my brother what my men could not. And yet, here we are at the end…" He took a breath. "And he…_won't_…DIE!"

While Blutarch was ranting, Radigan's eyes strayed to a large painting in an exquisite gilt frame. It depicted a thin man in his forties, wearing a nondescript grey suit and a stovepipe hat in a velvet chair. Behind him, however, were two people, probably in their twenties, if Radigan was any judge. One of them, presumably Blutarch, was a strapping man with a handsome moustache, a blindingly white smile, and a muscled torso. The other…

…Wasn't.

His face had a pale green pallor to it, as if the owner was permanently ill. His teeth were crooked, his hair was mostly gone, and his moustache was almost non-existent. _Rat_ would be a good word to describe his features, actually. But the painting's portrayal of Redmond was nothing that he hadn't expected, given the Mann brother's past history.

Then a particular memory surfaced from Radigan's mind, and although his features didn't budge, he mentally smiled.

From the pictures he'd seen of Redmond's mansion, the other Mann brother also had a painting such as this. The only difference was that in _that_ one, it was Redmond who was exorbitantly muscly, and Blutarch the decrepit toerag.

Bribery is a wonderful thing.

Blutarch's words brought him back into reality.

"I must outlive my brother!" shouted the old Mann, blobs of spittle flying from his lips. He pointed a finger at Radigan. "And _you_ must build me a machine to do it." He smiled a thin-lipped smile. "God wants me dead, Mister Conagher, and we are going to defy him." Blutarch stared at Radigan, his ice-blue eyes burrowing deep into his mind.

"Make me a monster." Radigan sat impassive in his chair. There was silence but for the gentle ticking of a clock.

"All right."


	2. Sibling Rivalry

_In which the Conagher family features._

Later, much later, Radigan Conagher stopped outside the workshop that doubled as his home, Conagher's Tools and Munitions. It was raining, and even though he was wearing an extremely effective oilskin (designed and patented by one R. Conagher), he was glad of the shelter. The words of Blutarch Mann echoed in his mind. Such a machine...

The idea itself was ludicrous. _Although_, said the little voice at the back of his head, _Aren't you already accustomed to ludicrous? To one who invented the Indivisible Particle Smasher? And besides, you need the money for your…_special_…project._ And the voice was right.

Radigan smelled something out of place as he entered the workshop. Smoke? A fire in his workshop? His questions were partly answered when he saw the woman sitting at his drawing board. She seemed familiar, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen her before. Every aspect of her clothing was violet; her dress, her painted nails, even her hair, although the latter also sported a brilliant white stripe running through it. And, of course, the cigarette held firmly between her lips. _Well, that explains the smoke, at least_, thought Conagher. Then she spoke.

"Don't just stand there in the rain, Mister Conagher. Come _in_. You're soaked to the bone, poor thing." Radigan tried to voice his questions.

"Who-"

"It will save us both a lot of time if you don't ask who I am or how I know what I know." She smirked. "Who I am does not concern you. What I know is that you've agreed to build Blutarch Mann a machine that will prolong his life indefinitely."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Radigan, removing his hat and sodden oilskin, the very image of obliviousness.

"Mister Conagher, could I possibly convince you _not_ to build this machine?"

"No, ma'am."

"Hah. I didn't think so." The woman leant back in the chair she was in, reaching into a bag by her feet. "So let me propose an alternative." And with that, she sat back up, pulling from her bag a gleaming ingot of…

…something.

"For the last forty years, Australians have outpaced the rest of the world in technology." She sighed. "Which is quite confounding, since by all appearances they're a nation of complete idiots. But what they've _done_ is incredible. Teleportation. Cloaking. The entire spectrum of the moustache sciences. _Every one_ of mankind's inventions now comes from the lager-pickled brain of an Australian. All because of this." As she said that, she gestured to the large and quite weighty ingot.

"Is that…gold?" asked Radigan curiously. The woman laughed.

"Not gold, Mister Conagher. _Australium_. Rather like gold in its chemical makeup, but with a subtle difference. Or so I'm told."

"Uh-huh," nodded Radigan. He had noticed something stamped into the top of the ingot, where the manufacturer's seal would usually be. "Why is there a picture of a man boxin' a kangaroo on it?"

"It's how they choose their king. As I said, idiots," she sighed. "Albeit idiots stranded atop the planet's only deposit of a transformative new element. They're fanatically secretive about it, but I've spent the last decade hunting it, ounce by ounce. But I digress. It's yours." Upon hearing this, Radigan's eyebrows flew up in surprise. There was also a fair amount of suspicion inside his head, as it was common knowledge that nothing this good came without a price.

The woman's voice sharply cut through his thoughts.

"Just think," she said. "If this substance could make genius out of an Australian, what would it do to a man of _your_ facilities? Use it to build Blutarch Mann his immortality machine. All I ask is that you build one for _Redmond_ Mann as well."

* * *

Present day (1969 for all those hippies out there who won't buy calendars because it kills trees, not even the recycled ones with the cheap glue made from boiled slugs or something hippy-ish like that, I mean _honestly_ people, Mann Co. makes those cheap recycled calendars _specifically_ for the use of hippies! And how do you repay us? BY NOT BUYING THEM! Unfortunately for you, however, by reading this you activate the secret homing beacon that we've planted in the text which will inform Saxton Hale of the route to your dirty little hippy-hovel so that he can BEAT YOU SENSELESS! Your anti-violence slogans ain't gonna do you much good now, you little ponytailed pot-heads…)

It had to be said that his employer had strange tastes. Most obvious, of course, was his love of one colour in particular. Every decoration and piece of furniture in his mansion was the same shade of blue. Even his uniform was blue! But then again, it never paid (pardon the pun) to question the man who signs one's payslips.

The bright glare of the lights overhead caused reflections on his shaved head, usually covered by a hard hat, and he drummed his steel-toecapped boots on the polished marble floor impatiently.

"Mister Conagher?" An old, yet friendly voice that sounded like someone's grandmother. Dell Conagher raised his head. "Mister Mann will see you now."

"Yes, ma'am," said Dell, going to stand up. His eyes were drawn to a large, gold-framed painting on the wall. "Say, uh… That ain't an original Kicasso, is it?" he inquired in his low, friendly Texan drawl.

"Why, what an excellent eye you have, Mister Conagher. It is 'Hunted in the Jungle', I believe." She laughed. "You may find it amusing to note that Kicasso painted this during his Blue Period." Dell laughed along, appreciating her sense of humour.

"Why don't you go ahead and call me Dell, ma'am. 'Mister Conagher' was my grandfather's name."

"Yes, I remember," replied the woman. They walked down the corridor towards Blutarch's study, then stopped outside the double doors.

"How much do you know about your grandfather's relationship with the Manns, Dell?" she asked.

"First I've heard he _had _one, ma'am." From what Dell could remember of his grandfather, Radigan Conagher was not a chatty man. Hell, he hardly spoke at all! But he loved those machines of his almost as much as his dear wife.

"Well, Mist…Dell, sixty years ago your grandfather solved a rather…_sensitive_ problem for us." She paused. "Well…maybe 'solved' is too strong a word. But I'm sure Mister Mann will want to tell you about it himself." Her hand reached for the door handle, then stopped, as a sudden rush of memory hit her. "Oh! One last thing." She looked Dell firmly in the eyes. "Even if he offers…do _not _shake his hand. He forgets sometimes."


	3. Inheritance

_In which Lara Croft is ousted._

Present day (still 1969. You hippies really don't learn, do you?).

"And then what do you think my rat-stink brother did?" The angry voice echoed around the wide study. "He built one too, that's what! I'm no closer to beating him than I wasa hundred years ago!" The elderly, shrivelled frame of Blutarch Mann leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "And what's worse, your _lummox_ of a grandfather didn't even build it right! This infernal thing is a lemon!" Blutarch pointed an accusing finger at Dell. The intravenous drips attached to his hand trailed after his gesture like a marionette's strings. "I've barely cheated death out of a _half-century_ with this pile of junk, and it's already breaking down. The way I see it, he was _your_ grandfather! And you're on _my payroll_!" Blutarch Mann drew himself up to his full height in his padded chair. "_FIX IT!_"

The ancient man's eyes were wide open, and staring straight at Dell. He had never seen eyes like that before. They were a pale watery yellow from old age, and the occasional red vein was visible. But Dell instinctively knew that these eyes could never belong to a man in charge of his sanity. He swallowed nervously, and gazed up at the columns of life-support machinery suspended on the ceiling. Walking around to the side of the blue-wallpapered room, he began to inspect one of the massive computer banks that gently hummed its way through its subroutines. Dell scratched his chin.

"Sir, I'm, uh…_flattered_ y'all'd think of me, but I have no idea how to fix this. Hell, if I touch it, it'd probably kill ya." The elderly Mann reared up in his seat. There was a twinkle in his eye, a cunning glint that suggested he knew something that Dell did not.

Dell didn't like that.

"What if you had access to your father's blueprints?" asked Blutarch with a crafty grin on his face.

"Well now, that's a _different_ story." Dell smirked. "Heh. Not much hope'a _that_, though. The old man had 'em-"

Dell was interrupted when Blutarch laid something down on his desk with a _fummph_. A pillar of dust motes and dry earth rose off of it, making Dell cough. He stared in shock at the faded documents in front of him.

"-buried with him…" Dell finished weakly.

"Yes, yes, I dug up your grandfather and looted his corpse," said Blutarch with a dismissive flick of his withered hand, as if grave-robbing and other such skulduggery (pardon the pun) was something that he ordered on a daily basis. Come to think of it, it probably was. Blutarch swivelled away from Dell in his chair, ignoring the look of sheer, almost tangible indignation and outrage on the younger man's face. "If it makes you feel better, those scribblings have been the bane of my existence for the last sixty years. I've spent a small fortune trying to decipher them. They're gibberish. Every single one." He sighed, apparently saddened by the recollection of money wasted. _Miserly sonavagun…_

Blutarch's chair rotated round again, so that the wrinkled man was facing Dell.

"You may borrow them. All I ask in return is that you-" He suddenly stopped. Dell took a closer look at the Mann's face. What it just his imagination, or did his employer's eyes look a little…

…Glazed over?

"Uh, sir?"

A thin trickle of saliva began edging its way down the elderly man's cheek.

"Is he alright?" Dell asked of the matronly woman who had ushered him in. Her answer took him by surprise.

"Give him a moment, dear," she said dismissively. "He's just dead."

Then Dell heard a small _tik_ from one of Blutarch's life-support systems. And suddenly…

"Rrrrrr_agghhh__**HHHHH**__!_" An almighty, primordial scream emerged from the lips of the aged man sitting slumped over in his chair. Electricity arced down the electrodes connected to his temples, and his whole body lit up with a bright blue light, his back arching up in his seat. With unnatural strength, the frail-looking man reached out a withered hand and grabbed Dell's collar, pulling the man towards his face. Dell was almost scared to look him in the face, as residual charge made Blutarch's eyes glow an eldritch blue.

"Every day I'm dead a little longer, Mister Conagher," he half growled, half hissed. "I have seen the other side! There is nothing there. So FIX! _THIS!_ _**MACHINE!**_"

Dell internally winced as the electricity earthed itself in his body. This had to stop.

"I appreciate that you're my employer, and an old man besides," Dell growled. "But if you don't take your goddamn hands off me I will _break you in half_."

Blutarch relaxed his grip, and the current ceased. A smell of singed flesh filled the air instead.

* * *

Later, as Dell looked through the folders in his workshop, he recalled his employer's parting words.

_Take your grandfather's notes, and decipher them._

He turned over a page, and the words '_Life Extender Machine_' stared back at him.

_Learn how to fix my machine. If you find anything of interest…_

Dell's train of thought was interrupted as he spied something peeking out from behind the top document. An orange paper folder, filled with faded paper.

_Remember, it's mine._

Some of the paper was singed, and the occasion rip made some of the words unreadable.

_Bring it directly to me._

But the title was still legible. Oh, so legible.

_Do not build it._

'Guns: Maps of Australium Caches'.

And a smile lit up Dell's face.


End file.
